Life Is Different Here
by EloiseHarvey
Summary: The old manor house used to be full of life-or as full of life as any place inhabited by Uther could be-and the pub in the village used to have people filling every seat. Now, the manor is silent and cold, and the pub is empty, and strangely quiet without Gwaine to disrupt everyone. A series of short stories, telling of their lives before, after, and during the Second World War.
1. From Now Until The End Of Time

**From Now Until The End Of Time**

_21/11/1941_

Dear Gwaine,

You're dead.

You're dead and I wasn't there. I couldn't save you.

They told me you died quickly, that there was no pain and you didn't feel a thing. I want to believe them, but I saw your jacket. They sent it home, along with your things. It was full of bullet holes and soaked with blood. But, then again, you know this as well as I, better, even. You were there.

Three days after they told me, a letter from you came. I was so happy. I thought, they must have made a mistake. You aren't dead after all. You escaped somehow, you're alive. You'll come back.

The letter was dated to the day before you died.

It was a foolish hope, I know, but can you blame me? For wishing you were alive? Mithian told me that I was. She said: "Nothing you do will ever bring him back. None of your wishing, none of your hoping, none of your praying." It was the first time I've ever wanted to hit her. I know I can't bring you back, but that doesn't stop me from wishing that I could.

When Percival was killed, I don't think any of us fully realised what had happened—some of us still haven't. He was the first person we lost to this beastly war, and we hoped he would the last. Of course, we'd hoped we wouldn't lose anybody, but, like the fools we were, we still believed that wishes came true. When Morgana's hospital ship was sunk, it was like Percival. None of us knew what had happened. She was supposed to be the safe one. She wasn't fighting, she wasn't killing anyone. She was saving lives and we couldn't save hers. When Lancelot was shot down, none of us could afford to fall apart. We had to be there for Gwen and baby Tom. We put our shock—yes, even after all the horrors the world had presented us with, we were still surprised—and our grief aside and we threw ourselves into helping them. When Elyan turned up in the hospital, we were all too busy worrying that he too would die of his wounds to be relieved. You asked me in your last—your very last, forever—letter how he was healing. His wounds are healing, but he caught a fever, and no one knows which way it will go.

Leon is missing. The news came several weeks after you, you know. I was at the cliff—you can put your fears aside, love, I would never—when Mithian found me. As she sat there, staring at the ocean, silent as a grave, her words from before came to me. "Nothing you do will ever bring him back," she told me. I am not so cruel as to refuse comfort to a friend, but the memory stung nevertheless.

My single consolation is Arthur. He is still in America, doing whatever mysterious thing one does in America whilst there is a war in Europe, and he continues to write and complain about the lack of action, or how he "Should be fighting, not swanning around like some Princess." In his most recent letter, he said that he was relocating to Hawaii, for whatever reason. A stranger reading may think me unkind or find me uncaring. I simply have no wish to address the elephant. And yet, it remains in the room. It can stay there a little while longer.

Nimueh is knitting. I still wonder who thought that arming her—you will have no difficulty imagining what she could do with two rather sharp sticks—was a good idea. If the Germans ever do invade, they'd better watch out for her. Gwen tells me I shouldn't joke about such things.

Mother is worried about me. Since the news came, she has taken it upon herself to monitor my every movement, as though she believes I will sign up myself. As though they would take me. Yet, I shouldn't complain. Although she doesn't know—and she will never know, as much as it pains me to say—she knows you were dear to me. And here the elephant rears it's head again, aching to be acknowledged.

It rained all of last week. I jammed my finger in the door hinge. Mithian baked a cake—without eggs or butter. My mother finally cleaned out the old cupboard. Gaius's sheep wandered away. And you died. It seems that the elephant is longer content to stamp and shriek its frustrations.

I know it isn't my fault you're dead. I know you would have gone, no matter what I said. I know that, had I been able to fight, nothing would be different. But I wish it was. I wish I could've stopped you. I wish I had been there to fight by your side. I wish you were here, to fill the hole you have left in my heart. I wish so many things, too many to name. But, above all, I wish you were alive. I don't care that we can't tell anyone, I don't care that all the world sees is two friends. I don't care about any of it. I just want you, here, with me. But I can't have that. I can never have that.

Love,

Your Dearest Merlin

P.S. This letter will never be sent. It will sit in a box, hidden from the years and gathering dust. Before you left, you told me never to sign my name. "It's too dangerous. The risk of someone finding out about us is too high." That was what you said. You made me promise I wouldn't. I'm sorry to break the promise, but I wanted to. I wanted to write you a letter, and tell the truth, and sign it. To sign it as me. One day, I'll join you, wherever you are. Until then, say hello to everyone for me. Tell Lancelot that Tom said his first words. Tell Morgana that Nimueh never seats anyone else at the head of the table. Tell Percival that his roses bloomed last spring, finally. Most of all, remember that from now until the end of time, I love you.

**Well. Ok. Where do I begin? I'm sorry? I started at probably the most depressing point I could. I...did not have to do that. So, sorry. I think that the rest of it isn't as depressing. But, who knows with me. Just, brace yourselves for anything**


	2. When The Roses Bloom

**When The Roses Bloom**

Since he was a small boy, Percival had watched his father tend to the great gardens of the Pendragon estate. He watched as Pellinore shaped the trees into the wondrous and fantastical shapes of dragons and lions, and he watched as his father planted bulbs and seeds, which grew into vibrant flowers.

Percival knew all of their names; he knew that the peonies grew best in sun; he knew that you should only prune lavender in August; he knew that you should never eat the roots of a columbine flower unless you wished to be poisoned; he knew that violets could survive through a hard frost. In addition, he knew that he loved the roses best.

He loved them all—the brooding red, the sunny yellow, the blushing pink, the pallid white. He loved them in spring when the flowers were young and full of life. He loved them in summer when they became plump and velvety. He even loved them in autumn, when the rain turned them brown and their petals dropped like leaves off a tree.

One day, Percival knew, he would be the head gardener. It would be his responsibility to watch over all the plants and flowers in the estate—not just those he loved best. Despite this knowledge, he still loved the roses, often-spending guiltily snatched minutes there, basking in their glory.

* * *

In 1937, Percival's good—no, good wasn't quite the right word. Lancelot was a good friend, but he was also so much more—friend Lancelot married his sweetheart Guinevere. The happy couple moved into a small cottage several miles from the Pendragon estate. In honour of their union, Percival planted a rose bush, near the mossy old oak.

When spring came, he waited in anticipation for the first buds to appear. May passed, then June. The leaves of the bush stayed green, but not a single flower bloomed. He didn't give up hope—it wasn't terribly uncommon for bushes not to bloom in their first year. So he put the little rose bush out of his mind.

* * *

Down in the village of Camelot, there was a small pub—the jolly tankard. His father had first taken Percival there when he was a boy. Not much had changed since then; the long bar was still rough and slightly sticky; the stools still rocked on ever-so-uneven legs; even the patrons were mostly the same rowdy crowd of his boyhood—with a few notable editions. Now there was Gwaine, an old friend from school, drinking with the best of them (and holding his own against several notorious drinkers—he was gaining quite the reputation.) and enjoying being not quite sober. Sitting on the stool next to Gwaine was Merlin, whose self-sacrificing sighs could give the martyrs of old a run for their money.

Sitting on the rickety porch—Percival wouldn't trust it to hold more weight than the few chairs resting on it, personally—were Leon and Elyan, engrossed in a deep argument. Gesturing wildly and vigorously, it came as no surprise to Percival when, after a particularly energetic arm-sweep, Elyan knocked Leon's hat off, sending it tumbling into the garden bed below. With a shout, Leon dived after it, clobbering Elyan on the head as he went.

Watching amusedly from the building across the road was Mithian, the young—and very pretty, according to Leon (Who, Percival was sure, was quite the expert.) – Schoolmaster's assistant. Seeing Percival looking at her, she blushed and waved, then ducked back behind the curtains. Having recovered his hat, Leon settled back into his chair, grumbling at Elyan and dusting his dirty headwear vigorously. When several flecks of dirt landing on his shirt distracted Elyan, Leon glanced at the—now—empty schoolhouse window. If Percival were a betting man—which he wasn't, despite Gwaine's best attempts—he would have wagered all his money on those two settling down some day.

"Percival!" Walking down the road was Morgana and Nimueh, their arms linked together and feet striding in synch. He tipped his hat greeting, leaning his bicycle against the wooden pickets of the pub's fence.

"Ladies," he greeted when they were close enough for him not to have to shout. "What brings you here? I thought you were in London until the fifth?" Arthur had mentioned that his sister was accompanying her friend when she was visiting a sick uncle and wouldn't be back until after their father's birthday – Percival knew this was true because he had heard his father grumble about Mr Pendragon's foul mood.

Morgana made a face, her red lips twisting into a pout of distaste. "Nim's aunt decided that having two 'flighty young woman with no sense of decorum' staying with her would not improve her husband's condition and would only distract the servants." Percival thought that Nimueh's aunt sounded rather like his grandmother. He shuddered at the thought.

"Never mind that," Nimueh laughed. Like her companion, her lips were red, but they were parted into a smile. "Tell us all the news. Has the rose bush flowered yet?" And, needing little prompting, Percival launched himself into a tale of school assistants, moody old gentlemen, and stubbornly unblooming flowers.

* * *

Spring came again, bringing with it the promise of roses. A promise that spring did not keep. Throughout the green months of growth, Percival's roses stayed stubbornly leafy. Not a single bud appeared—not one. Not a hint of colour against the fresh green of the bush.

Gwaine laughed at him—but, then again, Gwaine laughed at everything and didn't mean any harm—and his devotion to the flowers that refused to grow. Merlin hit him when he laughed and told Percival that he was sure they would grow one day. Percival appreciated the thought, but even he was beginning to fear they would never grow.

* * *

When he said goodbye to his sister, the ground was frozen and the trees were dusted with white. Dindrane had been carrying a child, a little girl who was lost along with her mother. He stood with his father and brother-in-law in the lonely graveyard, watching as icy clods of earth covered his sister. And when Bors collapsed by the graveside, begging her to return to him, Percival turned away and lifted Tor into his arms. The boy was too young to know what had truly happened; he only knew that Mama had gone away with the angels.

Later, he would be able to return to the grave, leaving flowers by the pale headstone. By the sprawling trees near the edge of the graveyard was another familiar headstone. Beneath this one lay his beloved mother. Yglais, like her daughter, died with her baby. Unlike Dindrane, Percival never left flowers here. His mother had never cared for them, and so he left stones there instead, collected from the riverbank or from the earthy floor of the forest.

He took his nephew there, too. Bors sometimes came with them, but mostly he wasn't ready to face the pale headstone of his wife. So, Percival and Tor sat by his mother and grandmother, telling them all the latest news. They heard about the scandal Nimueh's haircut had caused; they heard about Ygraine's delight when her book was published; they heard about their family and all of their achievements and triumphs and trials and sorrows. Percival liked to pretend they were sitting there with him and Tor, listening attentively to all that was said. Tor knew that they were only headstones, but the visits made his uncle happy and so he kept coming – although he didn't talk much. Mostly, he watched Percival talk; enjoying the smile he always wore when he did.

* * *

Percival felt no small amount of satisfaction when Leon finally admitted that he was going to court Mithian. He remembered the longing sighs—and there had been many—and the quick glances across streets and through windows. So it came as no surprise to him that they had certain mutual interest in one another.

"Honestly, Leon," Gwaine told their friend, speaking through a mouthful of stew, "If you hadn't made a move soon, I would've." Blushing furiously, Leon ducked his head amongst the bellows of laughter that followed Gwaine's statement. Percival chuckled as Merlin smacked Gwaine, who smiled innocently back. A clap on the shoulder distracted him.

Turning, Percival saw Lancelot standing behind him, grinning. "So," he began, drawing out the word, "When are you going to settle down, Percival?" Percival swallowed a mouthful of stew in shock and started to cough.

Arthur smirked. "How about I set you up with Morgana?" If he could talk, Percival would have been refusing vigorously. Not that there was anything wrong with Morgana, of course, she just wasn't the sort of woman Percival could picture himself settling down with. From across the table, the lady in question wrinkled her nose.

"I should think not." At her words, he nodded desperately. He was in complete agreement.

* * *

Spring of 1939 dawned, full of promise. Despite his earlier doubts, Percival was sure that his roses would bloom this year. Unlike last year, he didn't visit the small cottage where Lancelot and Gwen lived once, sure that they would tell him when the roses bloomed.

May arrived, and no word of roses had come from the little cottage. Percival felt his hope waning. Perhaps he was wrong, perhaps they wouldn't bloom. Maybe they would never bloom. No, he thought, he was sure they would bloom eventually. And when they finally did, he would be there to see it.

* * *

Percival remembered all the happiness of August. He remembered the long days spent in the sun, growing brown and freckled. The picnics in the fields, the rambles in the woods. He remembered the visits with Tor, telling Dindrane and Yglais all that had occurred. He remembered the delight that had filled the little cottage when Gwen and Lancelot announced that they were expecting.

He remembered September, the news of war, of fighting in Belgium. He remembered the speeches, the declarations of bravery and unwillingness to stand down. He remembered enlisting, like so many men—he doesn't remember his father watching him leave, remembering all the boys who went to war twenty-five years ago and come back shattered into a million pieces. And his father remembered the ones who didn't come back.

They send him to the front, after a scarce few months of training (Percival remembered the drills, the marching, the trench digging. He remembered the men he met, the ones he trained beside and joked with and slept near. It never occurred to him that not all of them would come back.) and he joined his fellow soldiers in the trench.

He remembered the men—the ones who were terrified, the older ones who remembered the Great War, the ones who had accepted their fate. After a while, they all blended together. They were all men, no matter their attitude—and he remembered the time they spent together, playing cards, sleeping—not very well, or for very long—and quivering in fear together whenever the sounds of fighting reached them.

He remembered the letters they sent him from home. Gwen's were always long, full of stories and details of Camelot. Merlin's were shorter, full of questions and barely disguised longing. The ones from those fighting also—Leon, Lancelot, Elyan, and Gwaine—came irregularly, but were always welcome. He kept the letters he received in an old biscuit tin, storing them away for later.

In March, he remembered the roses he had left by the oak. He wondered if they had flowered. Percival felt sure they hadn't. They were surely waiting for him to be there to see it.

* * *

Percival remembered May 10. He remembered the confusion; he remembered the shouts—"The Jerrys are here!"—and he remembered the fighting. He remembered the bullets that flew through the air like deadly hail, raining down on soldiers and blooming red across their uniforms.

He remembered the force behind the one that struck him, felt his ribs shatter as it passed through him. The ground was wet when he hit it; wet with mud, wet with blood. And as he lay there, trampled and dying, he thought that the red blooms of blood looked rather like flowers. And then he thought, he'll never see the roses bloom. And he closed his eyes and lay still amongst the mud and bloody flowers.

* * *

The roses bloomed, red as those that had covered Percival and his comrades, and Tor carried them with him as he entered the graveyard. He didn't leave them at the first grave, although he did stop there and tell his mother that he loved her and place a bright peony by her headstone. They were her favourite. They weren't for the second grave either. Instead, he placed a water-smoothed stone carefully with others and wished that he had met his grandmother.

It was in the quiet corner of the graveyard, a shady patch of grass with climbing mass of camellias covering the stone wall, that he left the roses. They rested below the tumble of pink flowers, very red against the grass. Tor sat on the springy ground and, with the image of a grave standing on a European field somewhere with thousands of others, he began to talk. He talked of Gwen and her little son, Tom, who had been named for her father. He talked of Leon and Mithian, and the way that the former had proposed on his leave. And the way that she had cried and told him, of course. He told of Arthur, who had gone away to America on some mysterious business. He mentioned Merlin, who resented being left behind while the others fought and sacrificed themselves for their country. And, sitting there, talking to the distant grave, he thought for a moment he saw Percival, sitting opposite him, legs crossed and hands under chin.

**So, after FNUTEOT, I was going to write a happy fic with lots of Merwaine, but that didn't happen. Obviously. I remembered that I'd added the bit about Percival's roses in the postscript of Merlin's letter - because I needed to say something about Percival and I couldn't think of anything else, but moving on - and I had the idea for this.**

**For those of you who aren't experts of the Arthurian legends, Pellinore was the Listenoise and Percival and Dindrane were the children of him and Yglais. Tor is technically their half-sibling, but he worked better as Yglais' son. Bors was one of the knights who accompanied Galahad on his quest for the Holy Grail.**

**Let me know in the comments what you thought, and if there's another aspect of this universe that you would be interested in reading about.**


	3. Stay

**Stay**

He met Merlin at school.

The shy boy, the quiet boy, the one who sat with the girls. The one who whispered an answer to Gwaine in history class. The one who tried to punch Arthur Pendragon when he made fun of Guinevere. The one without a father. The blind one. Well, half-blind. They looked the same, but Gwaine had been assured by Will – an old family friend—that the left eye was useless, not much more than a pretty piece of decoration. No, not pretty. That was ridiculous. Boys couldn't, _shouldn't_, be pretty. Except, Merlin's eyes were.

* * *

Gwaine was twelve when father died, killed by a cart driver with a runaway horse. He hadn't seen the body—it wasn't father, _it couldn't be—_but he'd heard the grown-ups talking, using words like 'crushed' or 'mangled'. He didn't quite know what they meant—he didn't really want to know, anyway—but he didn't think they were good.

The house felt empty without father. Mother flitted around the empty rooms, never settling anywhere—except at night, when she huddled in the big bed she and father shared—_used_ to share—and cried. Gwaine had thought about comforting her one night, but he didn't think she wanted him to know. In the first weeks after his—Gwaine still didn't want to say it—after he _left_, the house had been full of visitors and mourners, but now it was just him and mother.

He didn't like it. Gwaine missed father—missed his loud laugh, missed his warm hugs, missed the way he and mother danced to the radio. He even missed the way they would always kiss at the end, making Gwaine squirm uncomfortably. He'd cried when mother told him, but not for long. Boys didn't cry—only girls cried. Since then he'd resolutely swallowed back the tears that gathered, gritting his teeth and rough-housing with his friends.

But not now. He was alone, sitting near the edge of the cliff, listening to the waves crash against the rocks far below. Nobody could see him here; nobody would mind if he cried, just a little bit (that didn't mean he was a girl.) Except, someone had just put a hand on his shoulder. Gwaine jumped up, brushing his tears away furiously, hoping his face wasn't too blotchy, and prepared to shout at whichever of his friends had snuck up on him.

It was Merlin.

"Were you crying?"

"No!" Yes.

"Alright." Merlin shrugged and sat on the same rock Gwaine had been sitting on just moments before. Unwilling to stand like a fool, Gwaine sat too—not on the rock, he didn't want to sit next to the strange boy who confused him, sitting instead on the ground. It was damp and the dirt clung to his trousers, but it was better than the rock.

He shifted impatiently, waiting for Merlin to say something. He didn't, just stared out across the ocean, to where the blue turned grey and blended into the sky. Gwaine didn't understand what was so interesting about it, it was only _water_, after all. But maybe Merlin didn't care about the water, maybe he was thinking, about how he had seen Gwaine cry and—no. Gwaine hadn't been crying. That was for girls.

"I wasn't crying," Gwaine blurted, feeling his ears burn.

"I know," Merlin replied, still looking out at the ocean.

"I'm not a girl," he mumbled, scratching at the dirt. He could feel it getting stuck under his fingernail. Mother would have a fit—no she wouldn't, not anymore, not now that father wasn't there, not now that all she did was cry, because father _wasn't there—_

Gwaine brushed at his cheek furiously. He _wasn't_ going to cry. Not with Merlin sitting there, staring across the ocean with his pretty—no, not pretty—eyes. Eye. He sniffed, loudly. Merlin didn't hear it. Probably.

"I'm sorry. About your dad. And for sneaking up on you. And for making you uncomfortable." Gwaine looked up in surprise. Merlin was looking at him—had he noticed the redness in Gwaine's face?—and making an embarrassed face. Why was he embarrassed? What had he done? It had all been Gwaine, making a fuss and acting like a girl.

Not knowing what to say in return, he shrugged uncomfortably. What did he say in return to an apology like that? Merlin obviously took his silence for what it was—discomfort. He stood up, brushing off his own trousers. "I'll go now." And he did.

As Merlin walked away, Gwaine wondered what would have happened if he'd asked Merlin to stay.

* * *

The next time Gwaine talked to Merlin, he was again struggling not to cry.

On his way home from school, he'd walked past a particularly inviting tree. The day was warm—Gwaine had rolled his shirt sleeves up, but he couldn't take it off. The last time he had, old Gaius had seen him and told his mother—and the tree had just the right amount of leaves. In a matter of moments, he had sprung over the low wall lining the field and seized the lowest branch, abandoning his books amongst the grass and leaves.

He stood there for a moment, savouring the crispness of the shade. The noise of a cart spoiled his peace. He couldn't be caught in the field—not again. He dropped from the branch and gave a strangled cry has his ankle twisted beneath him, caught in a furrow. The rumbling of the cart faded away, taking the fork in the road that lead away from Gwaine and the field. _Away _from Gwaine. Nobody was helping him.

Biting down on his lip firmly, he shifted backward, off his knees and resting on his back. That felt fine. Bracing his hands—he stopped biting his lip. The pressure was beginning to hurt—on the dirt, he pushed up. And fell again—he didn't cry out this time—as his ankle carried weight. His head hit the ground with a dull thunk.

"Are—are you all right there?"

Gwaine pushed down a groan—that wouldn't have been polite. Everybody was always telling Gwaine he needed to be politer—as he heard. _Merlin_. It couldn't have been Lancelot? He wouldn't have laughed. Percival probably wouldn't have either. He would've even settled for Arthur; it was _his_ field. Anyone but Merlin.

It wasn't that he didn't like Merlin. It was that he had no idea _how_ he felt about Merlin. Everything was very confusing.

"Gwaine?" Merlin was standing over him now, his shadow falling across Gwaine's face. "Is everything all right?"

"Fine," he muttered. To prove it, he stood up—he'd never had a very good memory—and bit down on his lip—_hard_. It drew blood—as the ankle buckled beneath him. To his immense embarrassment, tears gathered in his eyes.

Merlin frowned, thinking. As though reminded of something, he turned away. "I'll go now." And Gwaine too was reminded of something. Several years before, on a windy cliff. And he answered his younger self's question.

"Stay."

**No one died in this one! Except for Gwaine's father, but I'm not going to count that. It was a necessary angst factor. Actually, lots of angst in this one, what with the lack of steady parenting, and all the internalization. Oops.**

**Also****, I'm having fun with the idea that Gaius is the type of grumpy old man who yells at kids to get off his lawn.**


	4. I Wish

**I Wish**

**04.07.1924**

Mama gave me this for my birthday. She said it's for my private thoughts and feelings. I shan't show it to Arthur, not even if he begs.

**07.07.1924**

Audrey let me help make the bread today. She kneaded it for me, but I did everything else! Mama scolded me after, she said I shouldn't have used the oven without a grown-up. Audrey's plenty grown-up! Arthur laughed after Mama left. I said he couldn't have any of the bread.

**15.07.1924**

Gwen is being insufferable. I learnt that word today. Ms Higgins taught it to us. All Gwen does is talk about Lancelot. Lancelot this, Lancelot that. I don't like Lancelot anymore. He's taking Gwen away.

**18.07.1924**

Father's back from his trip to America. He didn't say hello to us, he just went straight to his study and stayed there. Mama said that he is very busy and we mustn't bother him. I do hope he brought back presents.

**19.07.1924**

There aren't any presents. Not for me. Or Arthur. Mama got a necklace. It's all red and glinty. Mama says they are rubies. When I'm older, I'll have rubies.

**27.07.1924**

One of the big boys got angry at Merlin and called him a bastard. I asked Mama what a bastard was, but she wouldn't tell me. Perhaps Audrey knows.

**01.10.1924**

I put this journal down the back of the cupboard as a hiding place. But I forgot I put it there. I'm glad I found it, not Arthur. He would tease me. He's been very mean. Mama said he's going through a stage.

**12.10.1924**

Gwen told me a secret today. She said that she wanted to marry Lancelot when she was older. I can't imagine marrying one of the boys I know. Perhaps I shall never get married. I'll make a fortune and travel the world instead.

**16.10.1924**

Arthur hid my favourite book. I was very cross and I hit him. Father saw, and I had to go to bed without supper. Arthur still hasn't given my book back.

**30.10.1924**

Mama was very sick today. She had to go to bed. I asked Audrey why, and she said that Mama has a baby in her tummy. I asked her how it got there, and Audrey went very red and told me not to ask questions. Why wouldn't she tell me, I wonder.

**02.11.1924**

Arthur said Father put the baby there. How did he do that? Gwen didn't know either.

**10.11.1924**

At school today, Arthur called Gwen names. I was very upset with him, but Gwen was crying so I couldn't hit him. Merlin did instead. Arthur has a bruise now. He told Father it was from a ball.

**16.11.1924**

It snowed today, and we were allowed to leave school early. Mama said that Ms Higgins was worried it would storm.

**28.11.1924**

I've been very busy, making presents for everyone. Mama said that presents mean more if they come from the heart. I hope Arthur likes his socks.

**04.12.1924**

Audrey and I made gingerbread today. I got to choose the shapes. I chose a tree and a star. We decorated them with raisins, too. Mama said I could only have one to eat. Arthur snuck two, I saw him.

**09.12.1924**

Nobody will tell me what they got me for Christmas, not even Arthur and he can't keep a secret for anything. Surprises are stupid. I'm not telling Arthur what his present is.

**12.12.1924**

The Christmas Tree is very pretty. It's covered in candles and glass ornaments that twinkle. I accidentally broke one of them, but I said Arthur did it. Father hit him on the back of the head.

**15.12.1924**

Arthur and I went to visit Gaius and Arthur threw a snowball at me. He laughed, but then I put snow down his back. Gaius said he would come see us on Christmas day.

**19.12.1924**

Today was very busy. Grandmama and Grandpapa arrived just after breakfast. Uncle Agravaine came just a little bit later. I don't like Uncle Agravaine very much. I heard Audrey say that he was sneaky. I like Uncle Tristan much better, but he won't be here until late at night. He's visiting someone. Last year he promised he would take me riding. I'm holding him to it.

**24.12.1924**

It is very late. I can't sleep. Uncle Tristan told me not to worry, but he looked very worried. I woke up and Mama was screaming. The Doctor came. The house is very quiet.

**25.12.1924**

Uncle Agravaine said Mama doesn't have a baby anymore. That was why she was screaming last night, and why the Doctor had to come. Uncle Tristan said Mama is very sad and that Arthur and I mustn't disturb her. I don't think it's a very merry Christmas.

**31.12.1924**

Audrey told me to make a wish and it will come true next year. I can't tell anyone what I wished, otherwise it won't come true.

**06.01.1925**

Uncle Tristan has to leave today. I wish he wasn't. I wish it was Uncle Agravaine instead. I still don't like him. He lurks about the house.

**10.01.1925**

The Lurker has finally left. Mama is still in bed, but Arthur and I have been allowed to visit. Father is even crosser than ever. I have taken to avoiding him.

**12.01.1925**

Arthur has been very unpleasant lately. He always snaps at me, and he's rude to Audrey. It's very mean of him.

**18.01.1925**

I saw Arthur crying today. I didn't know what to do, so I left him there. He doesn't cry. Nothing is right.

**21.01.1925**

Mama had finally been allowed up! The Doctor said she couldn't do anything 'strenuous' (Note: Ask Audrey what strenuous means) but that she could leave bed. I'm glad.

**14.02.1925**

Today was Saint Valentine's day. Lancelot gave Gwen a bracelet. I thought it was ridiculous, and said as much. Arthur said I was jealous. I am not. I don't want any silly gifts from any silly boys.

**15.02.1925**

I am not jealous.

**20.02.1925**

Ms Higgins is leaving at the end of the term. I should be sad. Gwen is. But I'm not. I just don't particularly care. I don't think I'll miss her, either. I do want to know who the new teacher is, however.

**24.02.1925**

Father is going away again. Not to America this time, but to India. I had to get the library we keep in the library down and look where India was. It looks so very far away, and sounds so exotic. When I'm older, I'll go to India. Maybe Father will bring Mama more rubies.

**28.02.1925**

I finally found the book that Arthur hid. He put behind the manger in the barn. He knows I don't go in there often. We were playing in there because Merlin wanted to, and Gwen saw the corner poking out.

**07.03.1925**

I miss the snow. Now the weather is just cold, and very windy. A tree blew down today. It was blocking the road, and Tom was called to move it.

**10.03.1925**

My wish has come true. Mama is happy again.

**I don't know anything about childbirth and miscarriages and I did like ten minutes of research, so if I'm wrong, tell me. I'm aware that Tristan is canonically Ygraine's older brother, but it worked better for the series if he was her half-brother - at the time of his Christmas visit, he is seventeen (Ygraine is thirty-one, Morgana is nine, Arthur is twelve, Agravaine is thirty-four). Also, I couldn't find anything on her parents, so they aren't mentioned by name. Also, Audrey actually is the name of the Camelot cook.**

**For all (two) of you who were waiting for me to add to this series, here you go. If you wanted some more Merwaine, I'm sorry. There won't be any in the next part either. Speaking of the next part, who remembers in the first part of this series what Arthur was doing in America. It's going to be very relevant. Ok, that's it. Tell me what you liked, what you didn't, what you want more of. I'm always glad to know.**

**By the way, do any of you think you know who Morgana's love interest will be? Comment any guesses below.**


	5. Across The Ocean

**Across The Ocean**

America was so very different to England. Here, the war was something woman gossiped about over afternoon tea, instead of a bloody, brutal reality that tore lives apart.

* * *

Arthur was almost entirely certain that he was in America purely because Father didn't want him to fight. He had been shipped to this bloody country under the pretence of 'important business' and 'strengthening international relationships'. So far, he'd done nothing. Nothing.

His friends were away fighting a war. Leon, Percival, Lancelot, Elyan, even Gwaine. They were in Europe fighting, bleeding for their country. Morgana was fighting her own war—keeping the soldiers wounded in battle alive to fight another day. And what was Arthur doing? Swanning about America, going to luncheons and attending dinner parties.

He'd never hated Father more. To keep him from something such as this, this generation-shaping event, was a fate worse than death.

* * *

Morgana was dead.

Dead. His sister was dead. His sister. The nurse. Bombed by German cowards targeting a hospital ship. Gone. Sunk beneath the waves. And he was in America. Swanning about whilst his countrymen fought and bled.

* * *

They didn't understand. The Americans—the fools—treated the war as though it were some game, an amusing pastime thought up by the clever Europeans. Something to distract them from their own little lives. Sitting through dinners filled with the over-dressed, arrogant, money-grasping men and woman that made up high society America, hearing the pompous, self-important discussion, Arthur thought it likely he would kill one of them someday soon.

He wasn't entirely alone. He made an ally; one Ms Elena Gawant. She, like him, had been sent to America, out of harm's way. At first, Elena had reminded him of Vivian—a cotton-headed ninny who had been a friend of Morgana's at one point—but he had been pleasantly surprised when she had been able to hold a conversation with him. They had discussed all manner of things; the appalling way in which Americans treated the war, battle strategies, and—oddly enough—how best to skin a rabbit.

Together, they braved the dinners and the luncheons, the outings to the theatre, the visits to museums and gardens and galleries. American society whispered about them, the young, handsome heir, seemingly inseparable from the charming, beautiful heiress. Both he and Elena were clear with one another regarding their lack of interest in forming romantic relations. He didn't know the reasoning behind Elena's reluctance, but his was far away, over an ocean and living happily with the love of her life. He had accepted it, but he would never forget her. He had given her part of his heart, and it would live with her always.

* * *

They had formed a routine, Elena and he. They would arrive at events together, hanging off each other's arms. After the obligatory greetings and introductions to various people, whose personalities ranged from hideously boring to utterly detestable, they would retire somewhere more private, sometimes with a bottle of something. It was regular, it was reliable, it was almost comforting.

After one such evening, Arthur had received a letter. A letter from Father. The first of the trip. Father did not make it a habit to write 'meaningless drivel without a purpose beyond social expectations,' and as such, letters from him were few and far between. He opened it, filled with the horrible expectation of terrible news. And the comforting regularity of his life came crashing down around his ears.

He was to go to Hawaii. He would be leaving the following week. He would be staying there for the indefinite future.

Hawaii.

Leaving.

Indefinite.

Arthur had grown accustomed to his life in America. He had accepted his punishment. He had met Elena. Elena. Who would not be accompanying him to Hawaii. He would be alone. Alone with the horrible Americans, who chattered and gossiped about the war tearing his country at the seams.

Completely, utterly alone.

* * *

Hawaii was as he had expected. At least, amongst the civilians. He was shocked to discover the presence of military on the islands. Battleships, aircraft, all the facilities necessary to aid the Allies in the war. Sitting there.

The luncheons were the same, as were the dinners. Full of self-important bastards trumpeting their opinions for the world to hear, ignorant of the truth. He spent his days on lawns and verandas, sipping drinks and playing croquet.

He had hoped to find another Elena; another ally amongst the enemy. No such luck. For a time, he thought he had found one in Sophia, but she and her father had been maniacs, threatening to kill him if he didn't accept their offer of marriage. As such, he was alone. Alone, alone, alone. Without even the comfort of Morgana's letters. Because she was dead, leaving him alone. Alone with the Americans.

* * *

He got into the habit of rising early. At that time of morning, everything was quiet. He could pretend. Pretend he wasn't in America. Pretend there wasn't a war. Pretend Morgana was alive.

He took walks, among the houses and empty streets, through the alleys and lanes, by the ocean and the beach, hearing the waves, feeling the spray of the waves against him. By the harbour, past the ships, the soldiers, the sailors. Sitting there.

Unused.

* * *

He was on his walk. No different to any other morning. The same ships. The same soldiers. The same sailors. The same. But so very different.

The planes. They had never come before. The bombs they dropped. They had never come before. The destruction left in their wake. That had never come before.

Arthur had found himself blown backward with the force of the explosions. He hit the ground. Hard. And there was something wrong with his legs. They wouldn't move. And they were strangely numb. Unfeeling. Something dripped down his face. It came away red on his fingers. Struggling into sitting position, he looked out on the carnage. Ships, burning. Soldiers, burning. Sailors, burning.

Planes, returning.

Bombs.

And when they fell the second time, he didn't feel anything.

America was not so very different to England. Here and there, the war was a bloody, brutal reality that tore lives apart.

**I'm sorry. I had to kill him. He was in Hawaii, for god's sake. What was I supposed to do, let him live? What a ridiculous idea. But, in all honesty, I did it on purpose. Uther sent Arthur to America so that he would be safe, only for him to die anyway. Who knows, it might have been avoided if Arthur had gone to fight (lol no. He was always going to die). Also, apologies to any Americans reading. I have nothing against you, it's just Arthur holding a grudge.**

**By the way, if anyone has any requests for anything else from this universe you want to see, either PM me, or leave a review, and I'll do what I can. Sidenote: Don't expect any Merwaine for a while. It hasn't featured much on my list of ideas for this universe - it's all about random side characters.**


	6. When In London

**When In London**

High above the two of them, wisps of clouds dance above them, twining together and pulling away again. When she had been a child, she and Gwen used to watch the clouds for hours at a time, telling each other all the shapes they saw; galloping horses, soaring buildings, magnificent ships sailing across the horizon. She didn't see shapes anymore, only clouds.

"What are you thinking about?" If it had been someone else, Morgana might have said that their voice had shattered her peace. Not with Nim. Never with her. "Morgan?"

Morgana turned to face the woman lying next to her, wrinkling her face in distaste as blades of grass tickled her cheek. "Nothing, really. Just about the shapes I used to see as a child." Nim laughed, and, again, if it had been anybody else, Morgana would have bristled at them laughing at her. Instead, she just smiled, and laughed along with her, rolling back to face the sky.

"The way you talk makes it sound so long ago."

"Makes what sound so long ago?"

"Your childhood." She huffed out a small laugh at that. Uther—she never thought of him as Father, not anymore—hadn't been the type of parent who encouraged childish games and fancies. Only when he was away on one of his trips had she been a child. Mother never minded when she came to the dinner table chattering about the fairies who lived down by the stream. Arthur had laughed, but he laughed at everything she said.

Nim seemed to sense that she wasn't inclined to answer and didn't press any further. Instead, she raised an arm and began to tell Morgana about all the shapes she saw.

* * *

"You're sure your aunt is expecting us?"

Nim laughed, covering her neatly lipsticked mouth with a gloved hand. "That's the third time you've asked me. Yes, she is. Her letter said she would send someone to meet us at the station."

She worried the edge of her skirt between her fingers, catching on a stray thread and tugging it. "I just want to be sure," she muttered, tugging harder, and feeling the thread give way slightly. Nim tugged her hand away, trapping it between her own.

"Do you want to unravel your skirt?" She scolded. "Besides, what has you so worried? It's not like you to mind what people think."

Morgana shrugged, turning away from her and staring out the window instead. "It's your family. I want them to like me." There was silence following this admission, and she spun back to face Nim, shifting uncomfortably under the searching look she was giving.

"Oh, Morgan." A hurried glance around the compartment revealed that the only other traveler—an elderly gentleman—was thoroughly engrossed in his newspaper. Darting forward to plant a kiss on Morgana's hand she still held trapped, she gave a crooked grin most inappropriate for a nice young lady. "She doesn't even like _me_ that much."

* * *

London was like nothing she'd ever known. Dances, luncheons, concerts, walks in the parks, all of them done with a handsome young man hanging off her elbow, Nim just steps away, with her own young gentleman. They shared the look that every young woman knows, which never fails to make the young male gentleman feel as though he is being laughed at in some mysterious feminine way. All is forgotten, however, when she turns back to him and smiles, all red lipstick and white teeth.

London was bright, London was fun. London was full of men and music. London was full of Nim. Her aunt's house was full of corners, and empty rooms where the servants never go. They spent their days together, and ended them in the same room, talking and kissing long into the night.

London was when Morgana first thought she might be in love with Nim.

* * *

Their time in London came to an end after a particularly late night, the two young men who escorted them home laughing and flirting, she and Nim giggling and smiling coquettishly. It took them five minutes to walk up the front path alone. After blowing James and David kisses, and promising to save them a dance, they pushed the front door open, not bothering to be quiet. Their heels clicked against the wooden floor, and their voices carried all the way to the fourth-floor attic.

"Nimueh." Nim's aunt stood silhouetted in the drawing-room doorway, the warm glow of lamplight streaming all around her. "Come here." And with that ominous statement uttered, she turned and reenters the room.

She and Nim exchanged an apprehensive glance, but, with the glow of a night out dancing still hovering around them, they followed the old lady.

When all were seated in the rather uncomfortable but wonderfully stylish armchairs, Nim's aunt began to speak. "Nimueh. You and your…friend," a glance down her nose at Morgana revealed just how much she thought of Nim's friends, "are behaving disgracefully. Out at all hours, bringing gentlemen home, heaven knows what you do at all those _parties_." She spat the last word, as though _party_ was the worst insult she could think of. "I want you out of this house."

Nim started. "What?" She blurted, for once caught off guard.

"I want you to go. To leave. And never come back." Her aunt had stood up, her voice rising steadily, along with the blotchy flush on her neck.

"Fine." In contrast, Nim's tone was quiet, but two bright spots of anger burned on her cheeks, even brighter than the rouge she had put on earlier. "We'll leave tomorrow morning if that suits you?"

"The sooner the better."

* * *

The train ride home was no less lively than the one before it. They spent their time flirting with the porters, and scandalizing the old woman in their compartment, after Nim, under the pretence of losing her balance at the train turning a corner, landed in her son's lap, who simply gave her a charming smile and a wink.

For a while, they muttered about how horrific Nim's aunt was, and how unfair it was that she had made them leave. At the station, they stood hand in hand until Arthur arrived with the car. And if Nim had her head nestled against Morgana's neck, and if Morgana interlocked their fingers, well, that was no one's business but their own.

**I've wanted to write something featuring Morgana and Nimueh for a long time, but nothing seemed right. I started, and half-completed, a work about her death, but I wasn't sure where I was going with it, and know it's just sitting half-done on my drive.**

**I knew that Morgana and Nim were together from the start, and I've tried to leave little hints, but I don't know if anyone picked up on it.**

**Aside from being the obvious shortening of Morgana, in certain retellings, Morgan was her name. I thought it appropriate that Nim would call her that.**

**As always, let me know what you thought in the reviews**!


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